


Beauty in the Mundane

by Dog_Bearing_Gifts



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Agnes becomes a mom, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Hazel and Agnes Adopt the Hargreeves, Hazel becomes a dad, Inspired By Tumblr, Lots of donuts, Multi, Reginald Hargreeves loses his kids, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, The Hargreeves get normal parents, Time Travel, and donuts, donuts and love, or good parents at least, protective Luther
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2020-05-30 19:05:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19409500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dog_Bearing_Gifts/pseuds/Dog_Bearing_Gifts
Summary: “Look. I don’t know if getting ‘em away from their dad would change what happens. Maybe they’ll grow up to be just fine and the world’ll get hit by an asteroid or a nuke or something. Lot of shit can happen between now and then.”“But?”“But if you want to give ‘em a chance to grow up normal, this year’s as good as any.”Hazel and Agnes escaped the apocalypse, but Agnes isn't content to sit by and let the world be destroyed. Not when it means leaving those seven kids who frequented her donut shop to suffer.





	1. Prologue: The End.

**_1997_ **

The world was over. 

Hazel couldn’t hang onto the thought for long. If he pondered it for more than a few seconds, if he stopped and thought about all the cities and towns and plains and people who were now gone, his head spun the way it did when he drank too much and all four shots hit him at once. 

It wasn’t over yet, not in the year he and Agnes had jumped to. Late autumn, 1997 had seemed as good a place as any to seek refuge—not so far from the present they’d left to make their clothes stand out and their money unrecognizable, not so close that the apocalypse would loom over everything they did. The year held little significance aside from its status as a rest stop, a place to pause and breathe the air of a planet not yet engulfed in flame and ash. 

Knowing it was coming, knowing he had a means of escape, hadn’t made the brief glimpse he’d gotten any easier to bear. 

Agnes hadn’t gone far. She’d found a seat on a flattened rock close to the creek, the sort graduating seniors and happy young couples liked to use for yearbook and engagement photos, if the shows he’d watched were any reflection of reality. She’d adopted the same pose, too—back straight, hands on her knees, head turned slightly to stare out at the water. 

For a moment, Hazel simply watched her, watched a cold breeze lift strands of greying blonde hair, watched it bat them around before letting them fall back to her shoulders. The serenity about her, the calm lent by her pose and the breeze and the dappled sunlight across her back—it was an illusion, he knew. Reality had taken a minute or two to hit, but when it did, it seemed enough to knock her flat. Part of him wanted to let her be, but another part couldn’t leave her alone. Not again. 

Her glance toward him was brief, but not so brief he missed the mingled weariness and despair behind it. 

Hazel eased onto the rock beside her. The creek bubbled along, dashing over rocks and mud. How long it had been since he’d sat and listened to that particular melody, he couldn’t say. 

“Are you sure there’s nothing we could do?” 

Hazel bit his lip. In the past, he’d have pushed the guilt aside, found some distraction from it—but maybe that wasn’t how things ought to be done.

“Not with the time we had,” he said after a pause. “We were lucky to get out when we did.” 

“Maybe we could go back.” 

“Go back to _what_? Whole damn world’s destroyed.” 

“It can’t just… _.end_ like that.” Agnes turned, not quite facing him, but closer to it than she had been. “We can go back a—a little earlier, and maybe we can fix it.”

“How?” 

“Just find the point where everything went wrong, and then set it right. I don’t know, there—there’s got to be _something_.” 

_Protect Vanya Hargreeves._

That was the assignment. Keep Vanya Hargreeves from harm. Vanya was there to end the world, Hazel was there to make sure she didn’t run into any trouble along the way. Ensure the bomb went off as intended, try not to notice he too would be caught in the blast. 

She was where everything had gone wrong. 

_This was supposed to happen._

He’d rejected that answer. Fought it. Ignored it. Worked around it, when the battle proved fruitless. It should have left his head already, but that old excuse still bubbled up. Hazel couldn’t see the logic in it, but then, he’d never tried to see it. He’d simply done as he was told, done it well, and moved on. Onto the next job, the next killing, the next body left in a motel or a bedroom or the middle of the street. 

But he wasn’t with the Commission anymore. He was with Agnes, and Agnes wouldn’t sit by knowing the world would end in twenty-two years. 

“Maybe we could jump back a little more. Little further from the end.” 

“What would that do?” 

There was more than simple curiosity in those words, and Hazel knew before he spoke that he’d chosen the wrong train of thought to follow. “I dunno. Give us more time, I guess.” 

“ _We’d_ have more time, but what about everyone else?” 

_Definitely_ the wrong train. 

“They—” She turned more, facing him, but he didn’t move. “Hazel! All of those people are going to _die_ in twenty-two years, and you’re just gonna let them?”

“I just don’t see what we can do, all right?” He looked up, but didn’t quite meet her gaze. “Commission wanted the world to end, and they got their wish. They’ll do whatever it takes to keep it that way.” 

“But that lady—the Handler—she’s dead. You killed her.” 

“She’s replaceable.” Those scars crisscrossing her skin made him wonder just _how_ replaceable, but he wasn’t keen to learn for himself. “Now that she’s gone, they’ll just find somebody else to step in and do what she did.” 

Agnes lapsed into silence. A bird chirped from the branches above, but she made no move to look toward it. 

“She said to protect Vanya Hargreeves.” 

“Yep.” 

“Well, if Vanya’s the one who—you know, the one who did it? Maybe we could talk to her. Try and get her to—I don’t know, do something else?” 

“Probably not possible, way she was.” Blank expression. Colorless eyes. Striding through the streets with a violin case in her hand. Hazel had seen worse, caused worse, but he already knew that particular sight would pay frequent visits to his nightmares. 

“So we go back earlier. A couple of days, or a couple of weeks.” 

“Don’t think that’d be enough.” 

“I knew her, Hazel. She and her brothers and her sister—they’d come into my donut shop late at night, buy all the donuts they could. Start wolfing ‘em down before I could even make change. She was quiet. Shy. Come along behind the rest of ‘em like she didn’t know if she was allowed to be there.” Agnes bit her lip. “Whatever she did when the world ended, that wasn’t her.” 

A number of childhood visits to a donut shop didn’t strike him as quite enough to say you’d known a person, but then, Hazel didn’t have thirty years of customer service under his belt. Maybe those years had taught Agnes to see things he couldn’t. “She was a kid then. People grow up, change.” 

“Not like that. Something went wrong. Very wrong.” 

It had never been his job to think too deeply about the _whys_ of things. Worker bees weren’t paid to think, they were paid to follow orders, do what needed done. A part of him, a voice that sounded an awful lot like the Handler, told him it still wasn’t his job. The apocalypse had gone off without a hitch. The world was over. All that was left was to find a peaceful spot somewhere in history and settle down as best they could. 

“What do you think it was?” 

“I think it was their dad.” 

Hazel met her gaze this time. Her answer had come with no hesitation, no forethought, as though she’d landed on it years before. 

“She wrote a book, you know. Vanya did. Everybody read it, everyone. And the things he’d do to them? To those poor kids?” She closed her eyes, shaking her head. “God. Breaks my heart just thinking about it.” 

_“They’re a real friggin’ mess.”_ Hazel hadn’t put much thought into those words back when Cha-Cha said them. He’d heard them, of course, added them to his strategy, but he hadn’t paused to think why they were a mess or what that mattered in the grand scheme of things. Hadn’t put them together with Five’s words about his brother or the other emotionally stunted man-children—his words—he’d returned to. 

“You really think that Hargreeves guy screwed ‘em up that badly?” 

“I do.” She sighed again. “I just—I didn’t know back then, but if I did? I’d have taken ‘em right out of that house. Adopted ‘em myself if I had to.” 

Maybe that was a hint, maybe it wasn’t. It seemed a little too heartfelt, a little too sincere to be one, and Hazel hadn’t ever explained the fuzziness of time travel to her in detail anyway. He could very well leave her to think that their childhoods were beyond alterations, let her believe that their timeframe in which to change course was far narrower than it was. Maybe she’d realize the lie one day. She probably would realize it one day. But if ducking the Commission meant denying Agnes her peace of mind, then….

Hazel couldn’t bring himself to finish that thought. 

“You know when they were born?” 

“Yes. October First, 1989. All at the same time—I remember that part. It was all over the news for weeks.” 

“So they’d be—what? Eight now?” 

“I think so.” She paused. “Are you...?” 

He sighed. “Look. I don’t know if getting ‘em away from their dad would change what happens. Maybe they’ll grow up to be just fine and the world’ll get hit by an asteroid or a nuke or something. Lot of shit can happen between now and then.” 

“But?” 

Instinct, honed by years with the Commission and approved by their policies, urged him to drop the subject. Change it, follow it to any conclusion beside the one he’d set a course for. But Agnes was here, and Agnes wouldn’t want him to go that way, so he drew a breath. He had to say it now, before he had time to talk himself out of it. 

“But if you want to give ‘em a chance to grow up normal, this year’s as good as any.” 


	2. To the Wolves

Day four of surveillance wore on toward a conclusion without a single broken law on Sir Reginald’s part. 

This was to be expected, Agnes had told him. Reginald wasn’t quite a hermit, but only an actual hermit would dare call him social. Hazel was still a bit fuzzy on which laws applied where and when and to what extent, but he figured any evidence gathered whilst spying through the windows of that mansion would come down on his head, rather than Reginald’s. An act witnessed in a public area, though—that was fair game. 

He only needed Reginald to cooperate. 

Hazel took a bite of coffeecake. It wasn’t near as good as Agnes’ donuts, but neither dared approach Griddy’s—Hazel because he had been a stranger to Agnes when they met, Agnes because crossing paths with your younger self had to create one hell of a paradox. _“Think I’ve probably crossed my own timeline before,”_ he’d explained, _“but the Commission always sent me someplace I wouldn’t run into myself.”_

He’d been on a few stakeouts, though with the Commission’s emphasis on finishing a job before most folks could finish tying their shoes, he was still a bit vague on proper procedures for operations that lasted more than a few hours. Moving their base from one side of the Academy to the other hadn’t been a bit of strategic brilliance so much as an act of necessity; when a building took up an entire city block, it was impossible to tell when your target might slip out through the back door. 

“I’ve got some beef jerky in the back, if you want that next.” 

Hazel smiled. He still wasn’t certain if bringing Agnes along was a good idea, tactically speaking, but her pleasant company kept his more unwelcome thoughts at bay. “I’m good, thanks.” 

She settled back in her seat, though she quickly sat forward again. “Oh!” 

He followed her gaze down an alley between the Academy and a neighboring business, caught the same flash of movement she did. His hand rested on the ignition. 

No adults lived in that household, not yet. According to what Agnes had read, a robot mother and a monkey butler resided on the premises; but given Sir Reginald’s fondness for privacy, the only grown man who could be stepping out of a side door was the billionaire himself. 

A balaclava covered his hair, and a grey overcoat covered him down to his knees. Dress slacks ended in polished loafers. He didn’t bow his head as he exited, didn’t glance over his shoulder or hesitate before sliding behind the wheel and pulling the door closed. The knot in Hazel’s stomach tightened. 

“Looks like he’s not expecting a tail,” Hazel said. “You remember the plan?” 

Agnes nodded, retrieving a small notepad and pen from the glove compartment. A quick glance showed him a few mock interview questions. Posing as reporters would likely earn more bluster than answers, but if they were caught, the lie would do. “Which one should I ask first—the one about the mustache-sclupting contest, or the one about Colonel Sanders?” 

Hazel watched as Sir Reginald’s car chugged to the end of the alleyway, paused, and turned right without signaling. This might not be their chance, but it was a big enough oddity to merit further investigation. 

“Whichever one you think’ll make him madder.” 

He eased the car down the alley and turned right. 

* * *

Following a target through city traffic was always easier than following one through the countryside, for obvious reasons, but that was no guarantee of secrecy. For every three targets who drove on entirely oblivious, there was one whose continual glances in the mirror revealed more than they were meant to see. 

Reginald kept to the speed limit, sometimes dipping a mile or two below. He took no side streets, made no U-turns and slowed the second a light turned yellow. Aside from an apparent allergy to using his blinker, his turns were neither sudden nor sharp. Were this an ordinary job, Hazel might have found the target’s obliviousness heartening, even amusing, but as Reginald turned off the main road and down a side street, Hazel only felt sick. 

He might not do anything worth calling the police over. Hazel knew that. He probably paid someone else to buy his groceries and it was too late in the day to try and renew his driver’s license, but there were other errands that could have lured him from his home. Reginald might be on his way to do any number of perfectly legal things, and then Hazel and Agnes could leave to plot their next move. 

City traffic thinned as high-rises and glass-walled office buildings gave way to townhouses and fourplexes scattered among the sort of crackerbox homes that had been popular six or seven decades prior. Reginald slowed, and when he turned left at a stop sign, Hazel crept through the intersection at a speed that might have made Cha-Cha slap him upside the head and ask if he’d forgotten where to find the gas pedal. 

“He went past the last stop sign,” Agnes said, craning her neck to see out his window. Hazel had seen it happen, but still welcomed her confirmation. “And the—oh no, he’s going right.” 

“You know what’s up there?” 

She frowned in thought, a frown that deepened after a second or two. “I—I think it’s a cemetery.” 

“Can I get to it from here, or do I have to take the same street he did?” 

“Keep going straight until the next sign, then turn left. Should take you right to it.” 

He increased his speed. Inside of a minute, a green hill sprouting grey and black slabs of stone filled his vision, but he was more interested in Reginald’s car, parked along the curb mere feet from the entrance. A flash of movement signaled the man himself striding through the wrought-iron gates, quickly taken out of sight by the winding road. 

Hazel pulled into a spot on the opposite side of the cemetery, one shielded from view by hills and a few overgrown trees, stepped into the evening chill without a word. Agnes closed her door quietly, and they both noted the payphone outside a gas station catty-corner from where they stood.

Agnes caught his gaze, and he held it a moment. 

If all went according to plan, they were about to change the timeline. 

He’d known it from the beginning, been cognizant of that fact since he turned her heartbreak into a suggestion. But all those hours watching the Academy, all that time waiting for the man to show his face and charting a strategy—it all had kept the true scope of what he was planning to do at bay. Now there was nothing between it and him. Nothing to keep the thought from crashing down on him like an entire wall of crumbling brick. Only Agnes, slipping her hand in his, kept him from ducking back into the car and heading to the opposite side of town. 

Part of him said to pull away, leave both hands free for whatever confrontation might ensue if Reginald turned out to be more observant than he let on. Another part said it would add to the illusion. Just a couple strolling through a graveyard on a cold autumn evening, on their way to visit family or a friend, keeping to the grass because the grass was more pleasant. Nothing unusual, nothing to worry about. 

Reginald’s figure came into view, and Agnes dropped his hand. She might as well have dropped the rope tethering his life preserver to the boat. 

A monument stood by, one of those melodramatic statues depicting an angel in grief with names and dates and a host of other information engraved below. It wasn’t the best concealment Hazel had ever used, and it was less than he would have liked, but he didn’t see anything better. 

Reginald’s footsteps fell silent as he stepped off the path and brushed through the grass, stopping at the sort of mausoleum Hazel imagined a guy like him might insist upon as the site of his own burial. A key opened the door, but he didn’t step inside, choosing instead to speak inaudibly into the darkness. Hazel watched a second, then cocked a brow. 

“He usually yell at dead guys like that?” 

“No.” Her voice carried the same confusion he felt. “I mean, not that I know of—he _could_. He does have a son who—” 

Her words ended in a gasp, cut short by a hand to her mouth. 

“Oh my god. I—he—oh. Oh my god.” 

Hazel remained standing as she sank to the grass. He’d known the guy was twisted; Agnes had relayed a few accounts from Vanya’s book, stressing that the girl was excluded from much of what went on and likely didn’t know the half of what her siblings had gone through. What she _had_ seen, what she _had_ known, was more than enough to convince him getting those kids out from under his thumb might be enough to avert the apocalypse after all. Locking a kid who could see ghosts in a mausoleum seemed right up his alley. 

It still didn’t explain _why_. 

Klaus—the older Klaus, the junkie—he wasn’t the only one to break in the dark. Not everyone could hold it together through beatings and stranglings, but leave them alone with their thoughts, alone to wonder what was next, alone to recall the pain and terror and families they might never see again? There wasn’t a kink in the world that could save you from _that._

But that was the realm of torture, and torture was a tool. Find somebody with information locked up in their head, attack their defenses long enough, and those defenses would crumble. An eight-year-old boy couldn’t possibly hold secrets so valuable his own parent would lock him away. 

Whatever speech Reginald had planned was not a long one. He turned away, locked the door, and retraced his steps. Hazel watched, waiting for him to look his way, waiting for some signal that he ought to duck further out of sight, but Reginald didn’t so much as slow his pace. 

Hazel pushed questions aside. The _why_ wasn’t near as important as the _what_. 

He fished a quarter from one pocket and crouched in the grass beside Agnes. “Go to the payphone and call the police. I’ll wait here and make sure Reggie doesn’t come back.” 

Her fingers wrapped around the quarter, but she didn’t pluck it from his grasp. “You’re not going to let him out?” 

Her tone and the look in her eyes were enough to give him pause. “The police’ll do that.” 

“And what’ll _he_ do? Just wait in there with the ghosts?” 

_He’s lasted this long_ sprang to mind, but Hazel didn’t dare voice that thought. “Look, if I mess with their crime scene—” 

“It’s _not_ a crime scene, Hazel, they know who did it. Or they will.” 

“I didn’t bring my tools with me.” 

“It’s a mausoleum, not a bank.” 

There were more counterpoints, more arguments, but the guilt coiling in his middle was nowhere near welcome. He sighed. “I’ll pick the lock.” 

She took the quarter and got to her feet. He stood with her, watching as she retreated toward the gas station. After a few yards, she halted, saw him still beside the monument, and pressed her lips together, waving her hand in a shooing motion. 

The lock was nothing fancy, nothing too complex. A simple pick and a little finesse would get him through in a matter of seconds. Hazel could see the process laid out in his mind as though in a how-to guide, or that handbook he hadn’t touched since training. Everything else, everything that came after, was as clear as a mud puddle subjected to a thousand splashing feet. 

Hazel reached into his pocket, brushed aside the coins he’d collected on his travels, and found the lock picks. They weren’t anything fancy, just a set of picks gathered in a case similar to a Swiss Army knife, but they did the job when the job didn’t have to look too professional. 

Light faded from the sky as twilight became evening, but Hazel could have found the necessary pick even in the dark. Once he had it, he set to work. 

The lock clicked open. Once it did, once Hazel’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, he couldn’t have spoken had he wanted to. 

Klaus Hargreeves was a far cry from the junkie who’d stolen his briefcase. He was small at this age, with a slight build and curly hair. A blazer covered a starched white shirt and argyle sweater vest, but knee-legnth shorts, similar to those Five had worn, were his only shield against the cold floor. 

He should have been the one to call the police. Agnes. Agnes would’ve been better suited to this, would’ve had the kid calm inside of a minute and ushered him out with no trace of tears. One of those police officers allegedly on their way would have known what to do. Grab any bystander off the street and chances were ten to one that they would know what to do better than he could ever guess. Chances were ninety-nine to one that they would improve the situation, rather than making it ten times worse. 

But Agnes was gone, the police weren’t yet en route, and Hazel was alone. 

“Hi.” That seemed as good a place to start as any. “Whatcha doing in here?” 

Klaus drew a shaking breath, but only a few choked sounds came out. He’d folded himself up against the wall, as if making himself smaller might fool whatever terrors lurked, and he made no attempt to move—though he did shrink back as Hazel took a few steps forward. 

It should’ve been a paramedic walking toward this kid. A paramedic or some minimum-wage employee manning the gas station across the street. Someone who didn’t have a small army of ghosts trailing behind and no idea how to fix a person instead of breaking them. 

He couldn’t do anything about the ghosts, but perhaps he could make himself a little less intimidating. Hazel knelt, suppressing a wince as pain shot through his knees. A name. Maybe a name would help. “I’m Hazel. What’s your name?” 

There was another long gasp that shuddered like a dying engine before Klaus spoke. “Klaus.” 

“All right, Klaus.” Hazel shifted, and the scant light illuminated fresh tears on Klaus’ cheeks. “What do you say we get you outta here?” 

Klaus didn’t move. His gaze flitted from Hazel to the air beyond. As far as Hazel knew, ghosts couldn’t open doors; and he’d never seen one, but surely there had to be some indicator separating them from the living. But as Hazel watched, Klaus’ eyes didn’t flit back and forth the way they might have from one ghost to another. His gaze remained steady on the door, as if trying to determine whether it had opened at all or if that hint of rescue was simply a figment of imagination. 

Jesus, how long had he been in there? 

Hazel bent his fingers slightly, as if inviting him to move closer. “C’mon. Let’s get you out of here.” 

Klaus shifted. Both arms remained wrapped around his knees, but one loosened. 

“S’okay. We’re gonna get you out.” 

One arm let go and then the other. He shifted onto hands and knees, reached out to meet Hazel’s outstretched hand. 

Klaus’ cold hand brushed Hazel’s for only a second before clinging to it and, before Hazel could fully process what was happening, Klaus had his arms wrapped around Hazel’s neck, so all he could do was pull himself upright as Klaus buried his face in Hazel’s shoulder. 

Hazel got to his feet, balancing Klaus’ weight as best he could. His wrist screamed in protest, but he couldn’t set the kid down. Not now, and it was only a few steps to the door. 

Those few steps weren’t over quick enough. Hazel’s vision of setting Klaus down gently and sinking onto the grass died when Klaus kept hanging on, so he sank awkwardly to his knees. Once Klaus’ feet touched the ground, he slackened his grip. Cold air chilled the tears on his suit jacket almost instantly. 

Hazel expected the relief, but not the mingling guilt that came with it. 

“You okay?” 

It was a stupid question, but Klaus nodded despite another shuddering breath heralding more tears. Not knowing what else to do, Hazel put a hand on his shoulder. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised that Klaus leaned in, or when he threw his arms around Hazel’s shoulders. The torment he’d escaped hadn’t been the most brutal in the world, but given what he could see, it wasn’t something Hazel would’ve wished on anybody, either. Of course he’d be a little fragile after. Of course he’d cling to whoever was near. 

It still took a few seconds to return the embrace as Klaus sobbed into his shoulder. 

* * *

By the time red and blue lights split the darkening sky, Klaus had polished off most of the sandwich Agnes had purchased and was working on emptying the water bottle. In defiance of Hazel’s prediction, he sat closer to him than to Agnes. Unsure of what else to do, Hazel wrapped an arm around his shoulders. 

“Sorry if I messed up your crime scene,” Hazel told the first officer to come within earshot. “Wasn’t sure how long the kid had been in there.” 

“I would’ve done the same thing.” The officer crouched down, and a tag bearing the name S. GUTIERREZ came into view. He gave Klaus a gentle smile. “Glad you made it outta there.” 

Klaus looked down at the water bottle in his hands. 

“What were you doing in that mausoleum, anyway?” The officer’s tone wasn’t quite jocular, but it was lighter than Hazel expected. “Those things aren’t safe for kids.” 

Klaus swallowed. 

“It’s okay,” Gutierrez said. “You’re not in trouble.” 

It was a minute before Klaus spoke, and when he did, his voice was only a decibel or two above a whisper. “My dad.” 

“Your dad put you there?” 

Klaus nodded. 

“Why’d he do that?” 

Seconds turned to minutes, and Klaus did not answer. He swiped at his eyes with his sleeve. 

“It’s okay,” Gutierrez said again. Another few seconds passed. “What’s your name?” 

“Klaus.” 

“What’s your last name?” 

“Ha—Hargreeves.” 

“Who’s your dad?” 

Agnes put an arm around Klaus and pulled him close, letting the tears come. It was a few minutes before they ebbed. 

Gutierrez’s smile faltered. It had never been joyful, never been full of true mirth, but it was a good deal sadder now. “We’ll save the other questions for later. How ‘bout we get you over to the paramedics, make sure you’re not hurt?” 

Klaus should have looked up at Agnes, or even Gutierrez; but when he raised his head, his silent plea was turned only on Hazel. “Can…can they come with me?” 

“I don’t see why not.” 

Hazel tried to catch Agnes’ eye long enough to give a tilt of the head back toward the car, but she’d already gotten to her feet, giving Klaus a hand up. Great. 

He cast a glance toward the flashing lights, squinted past in search of any people armed with cameras, tape recorders, and questions ready to fire, but saw no one. Just squad cars and an ambulance. No sign of Reginald’s car, either. No reason he could see to leave in a hurry, but that could change at any moment. The number of corrections agents exposed by reporters wasn’t high, and those stories had never gone anywhere of note, but it had happened to them. It could happen to him. The chances of it happening went up exponentially with each minute he stayed at Klaus’ side. 

Cold fingers wrapped around his. Hazel knew, before he even looked down, that Klaus had taken his hand. He looked anyway. 

Fear was still all over his face, but not the sort Hazel had seen again and again. Not the desperation of a target with no more options, confronted with an end that had come too soon. There was some relief in that look, Hazel could tell, but something else, something he’d killed all too often. 

Hope. 

There were reasons for it, reasons Hazel couldn’t yet name. Not through the guilt and trepidation choking off thought or the unknowns peering at him from behind that mausoleum door. There was a plan—there had to be a plan—but it refused to surface through the questions crowding his mind, and the sheer scope of what he didn’t know left him breathless. He didn’t know what he’d do if a flock of reporters descended on the cemetery or the police asked for a fingerprint or Reginald’s car came around the corner. 

He only knew he couldn’t leave. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do suspect Reginald locked Klaus in the mausoleum a) more than once and b) when he was a lot younger than 13. I will explain my theory as to why Klaus specified that he was 13 when it happened for one corn chip. 
> 
> Oh, and if you’re interested, the song I took the chapter title from is by Anberlin. I don’t know if I’ll use song titles and/or lyrics for every chapter, but I liked it for this one.


	3. Gone Away

Klaus watched through the big bay window as snow sifted onto the yard of a home he’d just learned to navigate. 

The home owned by his foster parents, Louise and Albert Fleming, was considerably smaller than the Academy, so it should have taken him no time at all to learn where everything was and how to get there without asking for help. But where the Academy was just one big square, the Fleming home sprawled and splayed all over the lot. Walk out through the garage, and you’d find yourself in the back yard, where you’d need to either go around the whole outside of the garage and past a bunch of windows to get to the front door, or walk through half of the backyard to get to the back door. If you wanted to get to your bedroom from either of those entrances, you’d have to find a staircase, and those staircases liked to take turns that left you wondering exactly which direction you were supposed to go once you got to the top. 

But he’d figured it out, or he thought he had. He couldn’t walk from one bathroom to another with his eyes closed, like he could at the Academy; but he remembered which rooms belonged to which siblings and he could get there from the great room without getting turned around. 

And the house was new. He didn’t know how new, exactly, but his foster parents had been the only ones to inhabit it, and no one had died on the grounds before their move-in date. Before the police and social workers and everyone else had taken him and the others out of the Academy and brought them here, he hadn’t known a house _could_ be free of ghosts. 

The lawn was entirely white now, not a blade of grass to be seen. He didn’t know how long it had been snowing—he’d never been good at keeping track of time even when there _was_ a clock to watch—but Albert should have found Louise by now. It was a big city, but not so big that it would take one grown-up this long to find another when he knew exactly where she’d gone. 

Luther joined him at the window, taking a seat on the built-in bench set up against the glass. “I can watch for them now.” 

“S’okay. I got it.” Watching wouldn’t bring them back any faster, but it was something to do. The snow looked nice, floating against a sky of dusky purple, and he didn’t mind looking at it while he waited for one of their cars to appear. 

“It’s really late, Klaus. You should get some sleep.” 

He couldn’t, not with Luther in the room. Not when Luther had shaken him awake weeks before, eyes full of concern and voice full of questions about what sort of nightmare could have made him shout loudly enough to interrupt the slumber of anyone near enough to hear it. Falling asleep had been easier with someone else in the room, but if he was only going to wake everybody up, he’d rather brave the darkness alone. 

But then, maybe Luther needed to watch awhile, to see if he was the one to spot Louise and Albert coming home. 

Klaus slid from the bench and went to his bed on the other side of the room. He pulled the covers over his head and felt around until his hand grasped the handle of a flashlight. One click, and the makeshift tent was illuminated. 

In the beginning, the first few nights after he’d found the flashlight and snuck it off to their shared room, Luther had commented on it. Asked if he was reading, asked if he should leave the door open a crack when the answer was no. A part of Klaus, a small part of him, hoped for a similar question tonight, but all that came was silence. 

The air under the blankets was hot and thick, and Klaus could only sleep through the light if he turned his back. But the nightlight had been useless and a cracked door even worse, so he turned away from the flashlight and closed his eyes. 

* * *

Agnes didn’t mind stakeouts with Hazel, but even she had to admit they got old after the first week. 

The initial public outcry over a child being locked in a mausoleum for most of a day had given way to debate. One welfare check turned up a soundproofed room in the basement, in which one of the two girls—the papers didn’t specify who—had allegedly been held while she battled a long illness. Another revealed that each child had been granted their own bedroom and some apparent say over how that room was furnished and decorated, with no locks on either the interior or exterior. They’d found an android named Grace, a sweet soul designed to care for the children; and Pogo, a talking chimp who referred to the children as “Master” and “Miss.” An anonymous source told a few tabloids that more than one child _“cried every night they had to be away from their daddy,”_ and Sir Reginald himself expressed doubt the foster parents could provide the sort of specialized care his children needed. Mr. and Mrs. Albert and Louise Fleming had responded to these claims with a willingness to adopt all seven, should it come to that.

That was when Hazel suggested the stakeouts. 

_“Nobody’s come after them yet,”_ she’d pointed out when he first voiced concerns. 

_“We changed the timeline, Agnes, and we changed it pretty bad. This isn't the sort of thing you can fix by killing some guy off the street. It’s gonna take the Commission some time to work this one out.”_

_“You…you don’t think they’re involved? I mean, nobody’s tried to kill_ you.” 

_“If they’re not involved now, they’re gonna be.”_

Agnes lowered the binoculars. “Their coupe’s still missing.” 

Hazel took the binoculars and had a look for himself, though he’d already seen the exterior of the Fleming home plenty of times that night. “Minivan’s still gone. No other cars in the driveway, so it looks like they didn’t hire a babysitter.” 

“Didn’t plan to be gone this long?” 

He didn’t answer, but his silence was enough. He lowered the binoculars as the wipers slapped a few snowflakes aside. 

“What….” Agnes swallowed. She couldn’t quite identify the expression that crossed his features, but she knew she didn’t like it. “What do you think happened?” 

_Traffic_. That was what she hoped he’d say. _Just got caught in a bottleneck. Maybe they dropped by the store to pick something up. Maybe they’re getting gas._ Any number of maybes, any number of perfectly normal things could become an explanation for their prolonged absence, and she would have gratefully accepted any one of them just to ease the gnawing fear in her stomach. 

Hazel watched the house a minute more, then kissed her cheek and stepped out into the snow. 

* * *

“Klaus? Klaus, I know you’re there.” 

Klaus was nowhere near sleep, but Albert’s voice still gave him a start. He nearly threw the covers off, but his hand stopped short of the motion. 

Luther hadn’t said anything. 

He was sitting in the window and he hadn’t said a word. He would’ve seen Albert come in, would have noticed it and welcomed him home. He would have seen their car come up the drive and said as much, but he remained silent. 

“Come on, Klaus.” Albert’s voice had always been low and warm, and while it sometimes got strained after he read news reports about Dad, it always carried a note of assurance, a soft reminder that he knew what needed to be done to keep everything going smoothly. This pleading, this quiet desperation—this was new. 

New for him, anyway. 

“Klaus, I need you to come out here.” 

He didn’t want to look. He could stay there under the covers, wait until dawn or until Albert lifted the blankets and proved he hadn’t died after all. He’d be proven wrong eventually. All he had to do was wait. 

Hot air stuck in his throat as he snaked a hand to the edge of the blankets. His fingers trembled and he nearly let them slip out, but he managed to slide them under, poke them through enough to lift the blankets but not enough to be obvious about it. 

Cool rushed in as the blankets rose an inch, maybe a little more. The flashlight was pointed toward his pillow, but Albert stood near enough for Klaus to make out the blood clotting his side, filling in the gaps and gashes of twisted, broken flesh. A second figure stood close by, blood staining a manicured hand. Red nail polish with little gold bows painted on, the same design Louise had gotten in honor of the holiday season. 

The blankets fell. Klaus shoved a fist against his mouth, bit down hard to keep from screaming. 

“ _Please.”_

Tears stung his eyes; the flashlight blurred. He had to leave. Had to get out from under those covers, but he couldn’t move, not without Albert’s ghost seeing him and following him and coming close, too close, _it was all too close—_

He got himself turned around and crawled on his elbows to the opposite end of the bed; then, before any voice from outside could interrupt him, he threw off the covers. 

“Klaus!” 

Klaus ran for the door, started down the hall and turned around to head back for one of the staircases. It was dark, too dark, _all so dark_ but he saw a light switch and turned it on. 

“Klaus! What are you…” 

He was halfway down the stairs before he realized that voice belonged to Luther, but he kept running and sank onto the second-to-last step. Luther, Luther was there, his footsteps were getting closer, but Klaus could only clap his hands over his ears as big sobs choked their way out. He knew Luther sat down next to him, knew he let a hand rest on his shoulder, but he couldn’t do anything about it besides sit and cry. 

Luther’s hand migrated from one shoulder to the other. He wasn’t crying, didn’t know what was in their room or _oh god what could be behind them right now_ , but the arm wrapped around him, the awkward little half-hug—it was enough to still a few of his thoughts, turn the wordless jumble into an endless stream of _no no no no no no_. 

After a minute, Luther tensed. His voice was muffled, but the words were clear. 

“Klaus, you need to get up.” 

He couldn’t. He sucked in a breath to try and say as much, but the words wouldn’t come. The arm squeezed a little. 

“Klaus, get up. Somebody’s breaking in.” 

He tried to stand, but the most he could manage was dropping his hands to his lap. Luther was on his feet in an instant. 

The lock clicked, the door swung open and a figure stood in the doorway, framed in the light from the stairwell. His tears shuddered to a stop. Klaus found himself rising to his feet, just to get a better look. Just to make sure he was seeing things right. 

“Hazel?” 

* * *

He’d seen the light flicker on during his approach. It wasn’t much of a light, not enough to signal the couple’s safe return or one of the kids getting a late snack, but enough to hint at activity somewhere within the house. He hadn’t been able to get a copy of the Fleming McMansion’s floor plan, but a hall or a stairway seemed the most likely source for that particular light. 

He just hadn’t expected to see Klaus behind it, standing to his feet and saying his name. 

“You know him?” The other boy, the blond, looked about Klaus’ age. One of his brothers, though Hazel couldn’t say which. 

Klaus didn’t answer, not in the usual way. Inside of a few seconds, he’d closed the gap, thrown his arms around Hazel’s waist, buried his face in his chest. A quick glance to the brother confirmed this wasn’t what Klaus usually did when somebody broke into their house; not knowing what else to do, Hazel returned the hug. 

“They’re dead.” 

The muffled words sent a chill through him. “Who’s dead?” 

“Albert. Louise.” The names were thick with tears. “They’re dead. Both dead.” 

The brother descended the few stairs standing between them; a small girl appeared on the landing. “How?” 

Klaus didn’t answer. He knew, or he could find out; the dead were all too eager to speak with him, if the way he’d urged them all to shut up in that hotel room was any indication. A question, maybe two, and Hazel would know the manner of death, the location, who might be responsible, and how long they all might have before everything went to hell. All he had to do was ask. 

He pulled away, dropped to one knee to meet Klaus’ gaze. “Klaus, listen to me.” 

The brother was there too, hovering with a protective air. Hazel couldn’t say what he could do without knowing his name, but he knew this boy was a lot more dangerous than most kids his age. 

“I’m a time traveler. I came here from the future, and I need to get you—all of you—I need to get you outta here before something real bad happens.” 

“What’s gonna happen?” 

That was a girl’s voice, soft and carrying a slight tremble. She hadn’t descended the stairs all the way, but stood on a step closer to the top than the bottom, gripping the banister in a pale hand. 

Vanya. 

For a moment, Hazel could only stare. Vanya Hargreeves, the woman who’d ended the world in fire and smoke, was on that staircase looking very much like she’d rather hide from the stranger and confusion in her home than determine the cause. He wanted to search her face, wanted to sit down with her and ask as many questions as he dared until he could find something, some indication, some minuscule bit of forewarning toward what she would one day do. 

But this little girl in pajamas identical to those her brothers wore—she was the Commission’s plan. The ghosts Klaus had seen were a part of it. The first responders on their way were a part of it. Hazel didn’t know when or how, but once these kids were back in the system, the Commission would ensure their path led straight back to Reginald. The Flemings had sealed their fate with an interest in adoption. The next foster family would not be such an obstruction. 

“Lot of things can happen. None of ‘em are good.” It wasn’t a lie, technically, but it wasn’t quite the truth. Still, he needed something to get them out the door before the police or the Commission or both showed up. “And if your foster parents are dead, that means one of those things is gonna happen a lot sooner than you think.” 

It was hard to tell if Vanya was convinced or not. There was fear on her face, sure, but it seemed shrouded, like an image seen through a staticky TV set. 

“They’re dead?” 

That was from another brother who’d appeared at the top of the stairs. His voice climbed in pitch from the beginning of the question to the end. 

“Yeah.” Klaus kept his voice steady, but barely. “I—I saw ‘em.” 

Other children quickly found their way to the stairs, the news parroted to them on arrival, sweeping over them like a snowstorm and freezing them in place. Hazel knew it would be right to explain it to them, give them a few minutes to wrap their minds around the new reality; he nearly did, but thoughts of the police whisking them all off to another foster home and then back to the arms of their dad pushed him to speak. 

“I’m here to get you all someplace safe. Get your clothes, get whatever else you need, and then we’ll go.” 

No one moved. Klaus swallowed hard. 

“He—I know him. We—we can go with him.” 

That small display of trust didn’t spread, not immediately. His siblings stood for another few moments before shuffling off toward their rooms, casting glances over their shoulders as if waiting to see whether or not Hazel would prove Klaus a liar. The first brother, the one who had been with Klaus on the stairs when Hazel picked the lock, was the last to leave, staying close to Klaus as they turned back up the stairs. 

Hazel stepped outside, saw no police lights, and walked until he was even with the car’s windshield. Agnes’ head snapped up, and she broke into a smile at the sight of him, raising a hand in a cheery wave. 

Not what he’d expected. 

He lifted one hand, as though lifting a briefcase. She hesitated, then brightened and scrambled for the backseat. 

* * *

If Klaus said Louise and Albert were dead, they were dead. 

He hadn’t been the same since the night the police arrived, the night they’d taken Dad away and taken him and Klaus and everyone out of the Academy before asking what seemed like an endless stream of questions. Luther had never shared a room with Klaus before—never shared a room with anyone before—but he didn’t think he’d ever slept with a flashlight or woke up screaming before that night. Something had gone wrong, horribly wrong, but Klaus wouldn’t say what and Luther couldn’t guess. 

But he’d always seen ghosts. So if he claimed their foster parents were dead, Luther saw no reason to disbelieve him. 

Hazel, though. Hazel was another matter. 

He gathered his shirts together, kept them folded neatly in a pile as Klaus tossed both pairs of pants onto the bed and dumped shirts on top. They were new, or somewhat new; Louise had insisted they all needed new wardrobes upon seeing nothing but Academy uniforms repeated across seven different closets. T-shirts, sweaters and jeans were a good deal more comfortable than starched white shirts and blazers, but it still felt wrong to wear something other than his uniform. Even so, it was what he had, so he added pants to the pile. 

“You know where we’re going?” 

Klaus shook his head, pulling on a pair of socks. 

He trusted Hazel, that much was clear, but that didn’t explain how they’d met or why that trust came to be. Social workers didn’t break into houses after dark. Police officers didn’t claim to be from the future, and attorneys didn’t demand everyone leave the house in the dead of night to escape some unnamed disaster in the making. 

But then, Dad _did_ always say time travel was possible. 

Klaus swept all of his clothes into his arms and made for the door, turning back just long enough to retrieve a dropped sock. He marched out of the room without looking back, and Luther was left with the sinking certainty that Klaus knew something he didn’t. 

He always had, technically speaking. No one else could see the ghosts that always seemed to find him, and Luther wouldn’t have known they existed if not for Klaus. But this was different. This wasn’t two people getting different powers; that was just what happened. This was one person peering around a corner that no one else had yet passed. This was Klaus knowing what was coming before Luther knew to watch out at all. 

_“Keep them safe, Number One.”_ It was the last thing Dad had said before the police whisked him away. There was more, had been more, but not the time to get it out. Even so, Luther had tried to follow those words. Being separated from Dad, from Pogo and Mom—that just made his usual duties as Number One even more important. Keep them safe. Keep them together. Keep everything running until Dad can come back. 

And he couldn’t do that if he failed to see everything, failed to understand what he did see. 

Luther clutched a shirt to his chest, trying to ease the cold pit forming in his stomach. Hazel—he’d missed Hazel somehow. An entire _person_ had managed to slip past his awareness and now Klaus knew about him, _trusted him_ , and Luther only knew him as a name, a face, and a collection of claims he couldn’t prove or disprove. 

He should have heard the footsteps behind him, should have faced the door so nobody could sneak up, but he didn’t notice he wasn’t alone until Klaus gathered his shirts off the bed and piled them into the crook of his arm. Luther grabbed his pants and everything else. There was nothing to do but follow Klaus out into the hall. 

Hazel had found a suitcase, and it lay open in the downstairs entryway. Allison’s clothes were piled next to Vanya’s, Diego’s were jumbled up with Ben’s, Five’s were crouched in one corner and Klaus’ and a few of Luther’s were scattered over top. Luther added what he’d carried, tamping down the urge to fold them again. Hazel seemed to be in a hurry. 

“Is there anything else you kids need?” 

That wasn’t from Hazel; it was from his companion, an older woman with long blonde hair edging toward grey and a briefcase at her feet. She had a nice smile, a kind one that reminded Luther of Mom. 

Were they going to get her on the way to wherever they were headed? 

“My meds.” 

No sooner had Vanya said it than Five was gone, back in the blink of an eye with the bright orange bottle in his hand. It too went into the suitcase. 

Luther should have done that. Should have been the one going upstairs to grab the bottle, been the one to bring it back down. It would’ve been useless to stop the situation at hand, useless to make sense of it, but it would’ve been something. 

“Anything else?” 

Hazel went to the nearest window, stepped back into their haphazard little circle. 

He was from the future. He was here to prevent something bad from happening. He’d met Klaus before, and Klaus might not know what exactly was going on, but he knew Hazel. That was something. 

“Coast is clear,” Hazel said. “But we’ve got to jump now.” 

Five’s eyes brightened. “We’re gonna time travel?” 

Something Luther couldn’t identify crossed Hazel’s face, fading into a small smile. “We are. Just need everybody to hold hands, move a little closer.” 

“Are we coming back?” 

That was Allison. Hazel looked to his companion, then to her for a long minute. 

“I don’t know yet. We just need to get you where it’s safe for now.” 

“ _When_ it’s safe.” Five was practically bouncing in place, and Luther suspected it was only the fact his hands were clutched between Vanya’s and Ben’s that kept him still. 

“Yeah. _When_ it’s safe.” That strange look crossed Hazel’s face again, but there was no nervousness in that glance. He had urged them to hurry, yes, but not with the abundance of energy and tension he’d seen from Dad on that last day. He hadn’t snapped at anyone, hadn’t accused anyone of intentionally slowing them down, hadn’t made any strange requests about secret rooms or keeping things mum. Maybe he shouldn’t have, maybe he should have seen it for the warning it was, but Luther found comfort in that. 

His companion zipped the suitcase closed and pulled it up onto its wheels, held onto the handle and looped her arm through Hazel’s before taking Klaus by the hand. 

Maybe they’d come back. They’d return after a while. Hazel just had to make sure everything was safe. 

Hazel fiddled with a few things on the briefcase, then held it by the handle. “Last call. Everybody got everything?” 

A minute passed in silence. Luther thought maybe he should say something, stall a little more. Maybe another minute would be long enough for him to think of some other plan—but the thought of perhaps forcing his siblings to face whatever Hazel said was coming kept him from speaking. 

Hazel shifted his hand, pressed some sort of unseen button. There was a flash of blue light, and then everything was gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is taken from a song of the same name by The Offspring.


	4. Odd Ones Out

They landed in a motel room—Luther knew that much. The small space, the two beds with nondescript coverings, the nightstand and chair in one corner and bathroom in another all spoke to a dwelling meant to welcome strangers for a few nights before shooing them onward. He’d stayed in a hotel only once before, accompanied by a police officer and social workers while they waited on Louise and Albert to sign paperwork and do whatever else they’d done to bring Luther and his siblings into their home as their foster children. 

And now they were dead.

Luther knew he ought to feel something, an emotion so overpowering it dissolved him in tears. That was what Klaus had done when evidence of their deaths intruded on his waking world; and while Dad had said Klaus needed to feel more shame over the constant waterworks, the deaths of two people so kind seemed a good reason to start crying. It seemed fair. It seemed _right_.

Yet no matter how long he thought about their sudden departures from the world of the living, all he felt was a twisting guilt in his middle.

“You’re…Luther, right?” 

Luther looked up. He’d noticed her sink onto the bed beside him, but it hadn’t registered as something important until she spoke. “Yeah.”

“I’m Agnes. How are you doing? Are you feeling okay?” 

He felt tired, more so than the night Dad had been taken and the police had asked all those questions. An itch crawled beneath every inch of his skin. His head felt as though someone had punched his brain with a wad of cotton. But he didn’t know if there was time to indulge those weaknesses, so he nodded.

“You sure? Is there anything you need?” 

The answer was _Yes_ , but he didn’t know what it was he needed. So he shrugged.

“All right.” 

Agnes. He hadn’t heard that particular name before, but it sounded as sweet as she looked.

She repeated her questions and introduction with the rest of his siblings, but she went out of order. Louise had done that too, introducing herself to Allison before moving on to Ben and then Diego. But then, Louise had seemed surprised and more than a little horrified when Luther explained their ranks, so maybe family outsiders just didn’t understand.

“Where’d we land?” she asked once she’d spoken to each of Luther’s siblings in turn. 

“1987.” The man’s name was Hazel—Luther remembered that much from the way Klaus had said it. “I’ve got some bills from right around then. Should be enough to get us a room for a night or two.” 

“That seems kinda close.” 

If that small question of his judgement stoked his anger, Hazel didn’t show it. “I know. But we’ll need some time to figure out where to go next.”

Agnes’ gaze swept over each of the siblings in turn before landing back on Hazel. “We don’t have a lot of options, do we?”

Hazel emptied his pockets onto the small desk. “It’s just a matter of pickin’ the least terrible year with the smallest chance of causin’ a paradox.” He took a seat in the chair, sifting through bills.

This wasn’t unexpected, or shouldn’t have been. If Louise and Albert were dead and Hazel had seen fit to spirit them off to another year in the middle of the night, there was an even greater need to hide as far from 1997 as possible. Of course they’d go further away than 1987. Of course they’d have to consider their destination year carefully. He just figured they’d have thought it all over before finding them and taking them away.

Hazel finished counting out a few bills and stood, tucking them into one pocket, then put those he’d rejected in the other. “I’ll go pay for this room and then we can figure out our next move.”

“You sure they’ll let us have it?” 

He snorted. “At this kinda place? That’s one of the more normal requests they get.”

* * *

The grown-ups hadn’t left the room to talk. 

Hazel had left and returned with a key to the room they occupied. Once he had it in hand, Agnes had turned on the television, clicked through channels until she landed on a program that caught everyone’s interest, and then went to the table by the window to talk with Hazel. Allison knew the program was intended less as a genuine amusement and more as a distraction so she and Hazel could speak a bit more freely, but they both remained there. 

“How far back do we need to go?” 

Hazel sighed. He’d taken a small handful of coins from his pocket and placed them on the table a few minutes prior, causing Agnes to observe that they might not need to worry about money for a while. He held one of those coins, a gold one, between two fingers as he seemed to turn Agnes’ question over in his mind. Much as Allison longed to move closer and see what was so special about those coins, she remained still. 

“We’ve gotta take ‘em far back enough that we’ll avoid a paradox for at least a couple years. Dunno what happens when we cause a paradox, but the Commission went to a fair amount of trouble to avoid ‘em.” 

“So we’ll need to go back to before the fifties, since that’s when I was born.” 

“You and I should be okay, long as we stay away from anywhere we grew up. Commission’ll be keeping more of an eye on the kids.” 

There was that word again: the Commission. Hazel had taken the coins as a means of passive revenge on them—a “middle finger to the Handler,” as he put it—but from all Allison had gathered, they weren’t angry about the coins. Something else had caught their attention, something that had sent them out in search of Allison and her family. 

Neither adult had said as much, but it seemed both thought the Commission responsible for whatever had killed Louise and Albert. Dad had never mentioned this Commission, and she’d never heard of it from Louise, Albert, or any of the police officers or social workers she’d spoken to in those days after they took Dad away. He’d predicted other threats—wicked inventors, cults, theatrical villains and general crooks—but the Commission had been clever enough to slip his notice and quick enough to kill both foster parents. 

“If we’re gonna play it safe,” Hazel said, “I’d say we need to take ‘em to the forties or fifties at the latest. The 1950s, not the 1650s.” 

“The _fifties_?” Agnes’s voice lacked the shock of incredulity, but there was plenty of uncertainty to make up for it. “Hazel, are you sure?” 

“It’s the closest decade where they can actually _hide_. Sixties might work, but anything past the seventies is too soon. We don’t have to stay forever, either. Once they’re old enough, they can decide what they wanna do.” He paused, set the coin down and nudged another without lifting it. “For what it’s worth, I don’t want to take these kids past the late forties.” 

The coins clinked as Agnes gave one a nudge of her own. “I guess if we bought some land, built a house and kept to ourselves, they’d have a better chance at staying out of the public eye.”

“Keep ‘em away from any Commission hires in town,” Hazel agreed. “Give ‘em a chance to just be kids.” He sighed again. “You know anything about farming?” 

“I had a little herb garden for a while.” 

Hazel said nothing for a long moment, and Allison knew she could get him to say more. Four words, then a few more, and she’d have everything she wanted to know. _I heard a rumor you told me all about the Commission. I heard a rumor you told me why we have to hide. I heard a rumor you told me everything._

Luther had said, after they’d been taken from the Academy but before they went to stay with Louise and Albert, that they ought to be careful about using their powers. _“Dad said he’d take us out of the Academy when we were ready for the world and the world was ready for us,”_ he’d said. 

_“W-w-we’re out now,”_ Diego had said. 

_“And Dad’s somewhere else. We’ve gotta be careful.”_

Dad knew about her power. He’d always known, as far as she was aware; some of her earliest memories featured him standing over her shoulder, urging her to do it, say it, do as I instructed, Number Three. But she’d never been certain if he always knew when she used it, or if those times when he commanded her to use it were the only moments he was aware. _I heard a rumor you let me rest_ bought her enough time after training to catch her breath and stand without nausea doubling her over, but the memory of what had come after _I heard a rumor you didn’t make me train at all next week_ still brought a shudder. She’d gained a day or two of freedom, but something had happened within them. Maybe her rumors wore off eventually. Maybe Pogo had told. Maybe Dad was only susceptible to smaller rumors, immune to big ones. Whatever the case, she’d pushed too far. 

Louise hadn’t seemed to know when Allison used her power, nor had Albert. She hadn’t used it more than a handful of times during their stay, and she still wasn’t sure where the lingering guilt came from. Maybe it was what Luther had said, maybe it was the fact their foster parents still hadn’t known at their deaths. Maybe there had simply been no need for _I heard a rumor you let me have whatever I wanted for breakfast_ when Louise had already placed half a dozen choices on the table. Whatever the case, if Allison could use her power on her foster parents and leave them none the wiser, maybe the same would hold true for Hazel and Agnes. 

But then, they knew about her powers—or they knew about Five’s, at any rate. If they could watch Five blink upstairs and back down without so much as a yelp, they could be expecting a rumor. Maybe that wouldn’t change things and maybe it would. She wouldn’t know until she tried. 

Agnes lifted a different coin, a bronze one with uneven edges. “These all look so new.” 

“Picked ‘em up same year they were minted, most cases.” 

“I’ve never tried to sell coins before,” she said, “but won’t they try to check to make sure they’re real or something?” 

Hazel said nothing for a long moment. “I can spend a couple weeks in the past, get back in an hour or so.” 

“What if they decide it’s fake?” 

Again Hazel was silent, but Allison knew an answer would come. He was the grown-up, after all, and he’d found the seven of them in what seemed like the nick of time. He could jump between decades as easily as she could jump from one stair to another. She held her breath in case his eventual words were too quiet for her to hear over her own breathing. 

“I don’t know,” Hazel said at last. “Guess we’ll need another plan.” 

Allison let out her breath, but it did nothing to calm the fear coiling in her middle. She wanted to burrow under the covers. She wanted to fling open the door and run out in her pajamas, to keep running until she was as far from Hazel and Agnes as they were from the Academy. 

_I heard a rumor you took us all back._

The words were there in her head, ready to be spoken. If they knew about her powers, if they guessed what she’d done later, if they came for them all again—well, she’d deal with that when it happened. She just wanted to go back to Louise and Albert. 

No. She didn’t. She wanted to go back to the Academy. Back to a room that was hers and hers alone, back to Mom humming as she cooked dinner. Back to Pogo and the way he called her _Miss Allison_ , back to training and threats and praise and tears. 

Back to Dad. 

Allison hugged her knees to her chest, burying her face to hide the welling tears. She knew what a rumor would do to Dad. She knew what she could get and what would get her in trouble, what she could say and what she had to keep in her head. And when she slipped up, when she pushed a rumor further than she should, she knew what the next few days or weeks would be like. With Dad, she knew what to expect. 

With Hazel and Agnes, there was no sense in setting expectations at all. 

* * *

Five wasn’t close enough. 

He was close enough to hear specific words over whatever the cartoons on TV were saying. He was close enough to make out the details of their next plan—something involving interest and getting to the year 1929 before the banks started running—but he wasn't there at that table. He wasn’t next to it, wasn’t close enough to loose all of the questions crowding his mind, wasn’t close enough to see the briefcase and examine every lock and latch. 

Five looked toward the window that remained firmly shut against the day. It _was_ day—he’d seen as much when Hazel opened the door to head down to the front desk—but he hadn’t seen much else beyond a railing and a parking lot with a few pine trees scattered around. That offered a clue as to where they’d landed, but not a strong one.

“If we wanted to build a farm or something out in the middle of nowhere, there’s a lot of places we could go. Especially back then.” Agnes gave a small sigh. “But we’ll need people eventually. A doctor, a mechanic.” 

“I know.” 

“And we can’t just make everything ourselves. I mean, I don’t know how to—to make fabric, or milk cows, or _anything_.” She paused again. “Hazel, are you sure this is a good idea?” 

He said nothing for a minute. “California might be our best bet. We’ll handpick some farmhands, pay ‘em well, treat ‘em better. Stay close enough to a town to get supplies, far enough we won’t raise any eyebrows.” 

California. It was one of those places Dad had brought up as a location they might one day save, although he hadn’t seemed focused on the whole state so much as its cities—San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Diego. But those rescues would have taken place in the future, years _after_ his first birthday, not forty years prior to it. 

And Hazel hadn’t mentioned saving anyone. Just a farm. 

A farm in the fifties. 

It wasn’t as far back as they _could_ go, not as far back as Five wanted to see. But it was something. The1950s were a different world, one Five’s history tutors had only revealed in small, tantalizing snatches. It was a world closer than the 1650s or the 1550s or even just the 50s, but now it sat within reach. 

“How long’ll that take?” 

“Dunno.” Hazel sighed. “But I can get it all going now. Get some money, get the house built, head back and grab everybody.” 

Agnes paused. “That sounds like it’ll take a while.” 

The trepidation in her tone was palpable, but when Five looked to Hazel, he saw a small smile. 

“Time goes different when you’re goin’ from one point to another. Not sure how it all works, but I shouldn’t be gone more than a couple hours.” 

They kissed, and Hazel stood. Before Five could form a conscious reason why, he was on his feet. Someone—maybe Allison, maybe Luther—grabbed at his pajamas, but he tore himself free and blinked to the door. Hazel took a half-step backward, blinking in surprise, and Five knew he ought to go back to the bed. Sit with his siblings, watch TV, wait for Hazel to return from his errand in the past. 

But Five couldn’t do that any more than he could have eaten bees. He drew a breath and said what he’d come to say. 

“I wanna go too.” 

* * *

Five had done a lot of things that made Vanya question his sanity. 

There was the time he’d climbed out onto the fire escape and dangled, one hand gripping the side and one foot planted on the rung, as Dad came barreling down the hall. Or the time he’d added a handful of marshmallows to his morning oatmeal, wolfing half of it down before Dad could ask where he’d been and why it had taken him so long to join the rest of the family at the table. He’d zipped around while Louise’s back was turned, blinked up or down the stairs when Albert had called for him, answering their questions about how he’d gotten there so fast with only a grin. 

This, though—this took the cake. Which, in retrospect, shouldn’t have been a surprise, considering what Five had done at their seventh birthday. 

Hazel only partially faced the bed, but Vanya could still see the blank surprise written all over his face, as if Five’s question had frightened all of his thoughts away. He blinked, and then he blinked again. 

“You, uh, you ever been to the fifties before?” 

Vanya couldn’t imagine why he’d ask that question. Five had never been to the fifties—none of them had. Maybe it was a normal sort of question for time travelers, but Five wasn’t that. 

“Nope. And I wanna go.” 

She held her breath. Hazel’s surprise couldn’t hold out forever. Any second now it would crack, and the anger would pour through. Maybe he’d shout. Maybe he’d hiss displeasure through clenched teeth. Maybe he’d simply take Five by the collar and drag him back to the bed, force him to sit and watch as his first chance at time travel departed to the past. 

Maybe he’d decide Five needed to stay here in 1987 while everyone else went to the fifties. 

Hazel locked eyes with Agnes. A brief, unspoken conversation passed between them. 

“You think you’ll run into any Commission guys?” Agnes said at last. 

“Depends on how long we stay. Dunno if they’re tracking the briefcase or not.” 

“If they are, and they see him with you….” 

“Could send up a false flag. Make ‘em watch the wrong decade, buy us some time.” 

Another moment of silence. Another set of looks exchanged. Hazel turned to Five. 

“You got any button-down shirts?” 

“Yeah!” 

“Wear one of those. Blue jeans should be okay, leave the shirt untucked to hide the zipper. No sneakers.” 

Inside of a minute, he was in and out of the bathroom, dressed according to Hazel’s directions—although _dressed_ was more a technical term. His pants were unbuttoned, and only the topmost button on his shirt had been fastened. Brown loafers covered his toes, but his heels squashed the backs, and the laces remained undone. 

Vanya expected an explosion from one of the grown-ups, but Hazel simply pressed his lips together in a semblance of a smile while Agnes chuckled softly and set about buttoning Five’s shirt. 

“I’ll drop him off here once we’ve got some money,” Hazel said as Five shoved his feet into his shoes and tied them properly. 

“Let me know how it goes,” Agnes said. 

“Will do.” 

Five straightened, spreading his arms to show off his buttoned shirt and pants. “I’m ready!” 

“Be careful.” Agnes said it to Hazel and finished her statement with a kiss, but looked to Five next. “Both of you.” 

“We will.” Hazel took up the briefcase and adjusted a few things, then took Five’s hand. 

They were gone in a flash of blue light, leaving Vanya to wonder what might have happened if she had asked to go, too. 


	5. Teddy Bears and Time Agents

California was less a destination than a goal. Reaching it required time, and finesse. It required money. It required a trip further back than the fifties—five decades further, to be exact. 

Hazel intended to explain as much the moment they landed. Five's excitement over getting to see the 1950s had almost been enough to lend time travel the novelty it had held in the beginning, and there was no telling if it was the fifties that captured his interest or the notion of jumping from decade to decade. Either way, it seemed fair to let this kid in on the secret. It seemed right. 

But as soon as they landed, Five scampered over to the nearest tree and ran a hand along the bark. 

"Woah. This is what trees looked like back then?" 

"Uh, yep." Hazel shrugged. "Not like trees've changed much." 

Five moved on from that tree to another, then tilted his head back toward the sky. 

"You all right?" 

"Oh, yeah."

"You, uh, you don't have a headache or anything?" 

"Yeah, but it's okay."

So much for the idea that Five was immune to the usual effects, Hazel thought as Five knelt in the underbrush, scooped a handful of soil and leaves and poked it with a finger. The theory had been nice while it lasted, a solid one with no evidence that nonetheless explained the way he could get to a job and get right to work without compromising quality. Now it seemed he was just that good. 

"You need a minute before we head into the city?" 

Five let the dirt fall to the ground, eyes bright. "Which city?" 

"New York City." 

The Five he knew, the Five he'd traded stories about and offered his services to, would have wiped his hands and joined Hazel with a droll remark. _"Is it the year before or after those man-eating pigs were everywhere?"_ he might have said. This Five wiped his hands on his jeans and practically skipped to Hazel's side. 

"I thought we were going to California?" 

There was no disappointment in that question, only another layer of excitement, as though he'd found an extra present under the Christmas tree. Five had never been to New York City. Not as a tourist, not as a child hero, not on his fiftieth assignment to kill yet another nobody in a city home to millions of nobodies. He was only eight. Hazel knew it, had known it, and yet he wasn't sure whether to be amused or alarmed at the ease with which the fact had slipped his mind. 

"We need money first." 

"Can't we just go to the bank?" 

"Technically, we _could_ ," Hazel said. He imagined himself standing nonchalantly outside a bank while Five emptied the vault, or burglarizing a string of wealthy homes on one coast and pawning the valuables on his way to another. The thought of what Agnes would say frightened him more than what the police would do. "But we're gonna get it a different way." 

* * *

Hazel's way involved offices. 

The first day was a whirl of them, of wide windows and polished floors, of brick and marble and men in suits and wooden chairs. At first, Five tried to pay attention to what was being said, but talk of accounts and investments and stocks and Wall Street was little more than a jumble of words he couldn't sift through. Once Five's headache wore thin, once the offices in 1901 blurred into one another and the faces of the men sitting behind those desks failed to distinguish themselves in his mind, he started to think. 

He thought about the man behind the desk. 

He thought about the look that man had given him, as though he were a pet cockroach Hazel had insisted he bring along. 

He thought about that briefcase at Hazel's feet. 

It could go to 1987 and it could go to 1901. It had taken Hazel from some unspecified year in the future to 1997. There was a small chance it could only go backwards, but Hazel had mentioned going back to that hotel room once they had the necessary funds, so that appeared unlikely. 

Unless they needed to go so far back in time that time looped back on itself and allowed them to go to the future again. 

The thought should have made Five turn back to the man and his desk, kept his hand from reaching toward the briefcase, but it only made his heart race. He'd seen time-travel, made a few jumps. But those were two moments within the same century. Those instances, those places—they existed in photographs, some black and white and some grainy with age. Other years, other moments, existed beyond photographs, in the days when only paint and words could capture the colors and people and buildings and skies and water. They were like a frontier, territory mapped but not yet explored, waiting for someone with just the right briefcase to land and see everything there was to see. 

"Did you need something, young man?" 

Five snapped back into his chair, sitting straight and still the way Dad liked. His cheeks flamed and he fought for something to say, something that might wipe that glare off the man's face. 

"I don't need anything," he said. "You look like you need a teddy bear, though." 

"I'm sorry, a _what_?" 

"A teddy bear. To help you be less angry about everything." 

"All right." Hazel got to his feet, snatching the briefcase with one hand and Five's hand with the other. "That's all we need. Thank you for your time." 

Inside of a second, Hazel had turned himself and Five and the briefcase away from the desk, steering them both to where sunlight gleamed through the windows. Five nearly broke in a run simply to keep pace as those long rectangles of sunlight drew closer and closer, as the cold pit in his stomach grew with each hurried step. 

They burst through the door and into spring air that hit with the mingling scents of horse manure and coal smoke, and Hazel released his hand. Five glanced toward the end of the block, toward horses plodding by with carriages in tow. He couldn't blink into one of them—not just yet—but he could get to the next street. What was there, he didn't remember off the top of his head; but it would take Hazel more than a few minutes to catch up. It would buy him time to think of what to say, to find an excuse that might cover what he'd said—but no. 

No. 

He needed to see the look on Hazel's face. There was no other way to evaluate the precise shade of anger he wore, to guess if it were the sort he needed to defy or the sort he needed to avoid. He couldn't do any of that until he looked. 

Hazel laughed. 

It was nothing Five hadn't heard before, though not until recently. Not until Albert. It had been surprising then, a sound that wasn't supposed to exist in that precise moment that nonetheless found its way into a conversation that should have been dripping with anger and shot through with contempt. The noise was no less shocking from Hazel. 

"That was funny," Hazel said, "but don't do it again." 

Five knew he ought to fire back quickly, but a response didn't form until Hazel had set off down the street. "If it was funny, why can't I do it again?" 

"'Cause I don't think teddy bears get invented for another year or two." 

He studied Hazel's face, seeking any hint of jest or falsehood, but saw none. If Hazel was putting him on, he was better at it than Diego was. 

"Not like we're gonna stay here long anyway, but since we already changed the timeline…" He let out a breath. "Best if we don't mention too much shit from the future." 

Five looked to the brick wall of the building, to the people passing. A woman in a pale blue dress that reached the sidewalk at one end and her neck at the other, done up in tucks and frills with lace at the collar and cuffs, held to the arm of a man in a dark suit and bowler hat. If Klaus got his hands on a dress like that, he'd never take it off. 

"When are we leaving?" 

"Depends on how quick we get everything set up." 

They stopped at the end of the block, flanked on all sides by buildings that shot up toward the sky, though not before allowing those below to marvel at the sweeping arches and decorations carved beneath each window. These seemed the type to last long after 1901 and 1902 and 1910 and 1920 were over, but those dresses would change, the suits as well to a lesser extent. Those carriages would become cars and the horses would disappear; a new cacophony, new smells and new voices, would fill all the streets of the city, and Five would be in a different year with memories of one. 

"Are we coming back?" 

A small jolt of fear pricked him as Hazel fell into silence. Five's thoughts raced through everything he'd said, everything he'd done, in search of the thing that had caused Hazel to stop talking; but when he looked up, Hazel wasn't there. He lagged a few steps back, having slowed his pace, head turned toward the second-story window on a building across the street. Five stopped, following his gaze as best he could, nearly jumping out of his skin when Hazel's hand landed on his shoulder.

"Don't look. Just keep on walkin'." 

Five forced his gaze to the road ahead, but the building across the street tugged at his attention like a magnet. "What's up there?" 

"Probably nothing." 

_"It's probably nothing."_ He could hear it in Albert's voice, see the reassuring smile he'd worn and the headlights of his coupe landing like spotlights on handfuls of snowflakes as they sifted down. _"We'll be back soon. Probably while you kids are still in bed."_ He'd said it so calmly and with all the gentle assurance Five had just begun taking for granted, and Five had believed him. Despite the unease in that house—his siblings' and his own—he'd believed him. 

"You know," Hazel said slowly, "it might be better if we go get a bite to eat. Pop on over to some year when they're not filling milk up with plaster, grab a little something, head on back and make sure everything's ready to go. If you're hungry?" 

The suggestion of food was small and oblique, but Five felt a sudden pang of hunger anyway. Trying to figure how long ago his last meal had been was like trying to sift through a box in search of two matching puzzle pieces after someone had mixed three puzzles together and given the box a good shake. "Yeah." 

"Remember stopping at this pretty good restaurant in the thirties. You wanna try it?" 

A restaurant in the thirties. It was close to the fifties, further up the timeline than Five wanted to go, though he hadn't realized as much until the option was on the table. There was nothing in the thirties he didn't want to see, but the thought of going back further, back to the 1830s or the 1740s, was like hearing Mom had made an extra birthday cake just for him. Going to the 1930s was like hearing he had to share. 

But a cake was still a cake. 

"Yeah. That sounds good." 

Hazel nodded once. "That's what we'll do, then." 

Five couldn't turn toward the other side of the street until they rounded a corner. The window Hazel had sighted was long since past, but Five looked toward the building anyway, focused on the first pane of glass that caught his eye. Nothing stirred behind it, nothing moved across it, but if he just watched a moment longer, studied it for another second, whatever Hazel had lied about would appear. 

"Five." 

There was no anger in Hazel's voice, none of the harshness that would have filled Dad's tone, none of the nervousness that had sometimes found its way into Albert's. Five still started and whirled, heat climbing to his cheeks. 

Hazel tilted his head down the street, and Five hurried after. 

* * *

Five was not one to take words at face value. 

Hazel had guessed as much when he walked into the Academy less than a day before the world ended. That smile, those sharp questions and pointed remarks—they all spoke to a man with a well-developed bullshit detector and no patience for anything that set it off. A good thing to have, especially with the Handler as a boss; but he'd always assumed she was the reason behind its existence. 

Five remained glued to his side as they rounded a corner, as they ducked into the busiest shop Hazel could find. He kept watch as Hazel set the dials to the date he needed, glancing all around as Hazel took his hand. The glances didn't stop when they landed, either; the diner wasn't a long walk, but Five spent every minute of it turning his head to the left, to the right, toward the back and to the front again. Minneapolis in 1934 was a very different place from New York City in 1901, but his weren't the sort of quick looks toward anything and everything of interest. Five was searching for something, and he wasn't eager to find it. 

If the embrace of warm air and the aroma of cooking meat calmed Five at all, he failed to show it. Each table they passed, each person seated and eating or waiting, talking or sitting in silence, received a quick once-over, a gaze that went on a little longer than usual. When they sat, Five spent all of ten seconds studying the menu before turning his attention to the nearest waitress. 

He didn't know what to look for. The realization brought a pang. There wouldn't be much to see, even for the trained eye; but there were smaller details for those who knew to seek them. He only knew to look, and keep looking until something vaguely suspicious caught his eye. He'd been told it was nothing, and yet he searched.

"Didn't see anybody back in New York." 

Five started from his study of the man at the nearest table, a gentleman in a suit and fedora seated alone with a paper spread out before him. His pencil scratched across now and then, circling stretches of words. Job listings, perhaps.

"Just saw something watching us in one of the windows." For a moment he considered assuring Five that what he'd seen had been nothing at all, but Five had already seen through his other excuses. If he didn't see through this one, then the only explanation was that the side effects of time travel had finally caught up to him. "Still not sure what it was. Could've been somebody, could've been nobody." 

"Like the Commission?" 

Hazel sighed. Cha-Cha had been wrong about kids losing their curiosity once you plopped them in front of a cartoon. "Yeah. Like them." 

For a long moment, Five said nothing. Hazel wanted to call attention to the waitress carrying plates of Salisbury steak, ask if Five had ever tried it and recommend the best places to sample it. He wanted to point out the window and ramble about his brush with a Minnesota blizzard back in 1873. One of those topics, or another kicking around in his head, would distract him. One of them would turn his attention from the people bent on dragging him back to the lair of a man who had thrown his brother to the ghosts. 

He tried to untangle the threads, tried to lay them out and give himself some sort of an outline; but the knot was too snarled and too wide. He couldn't bring up the Commission without explaining how he knew them; and while the Number Five he knew wouldn't be fazed by a description of what the Commission did and what Hazel had done for them, there was no telling what the Number Five holding a menu in his small hands might do. He was a child with a target on his back, and the reasons for its presence were more unsettling than the target itself. 

This wasn't right. Five studying the trees and poking the dirt and marveling at how something that could live for hundreds of years appeared more or less the same from one century to another—that had been right. That was how it should be. He ought to be reading the dessert menu and begging Hazel to get the chocolate cake before their meal, not studying each and every customer for warning signs he couldn't yet recognize. 

"I can tell you what I look for. How to work the briefcase if we get in a tight spot." 

Five perked up, and Hazel wished he'd said anything else. Time agents weren't exactly masters of disguise—a job that demanded employees leave one year and enter another before the bodies had cooled didn't leave much time for learning the finer nuances of the eras to which they were assigned—but the Commission didn't restrict their employment to those who'd been plucked from their timelines. Each new year yielded a fresh crop of murderers and those who had not yet stooped to it but could be persuaded by a large enough sum, and each new threat to the timeline placed their services more in demand. Spotting an agent could be as simple as listening for a lack of local slang or lack of expertise in mounting a horse. Spotting a local hire was no easier than spotting a common criminal. 

But maybe half a solution would be better than nothing. 

* * *

_They're not real easy to spot._

A shadow flickered past the mouth of an alleyway, and Five's head snapped toward it. 

_Second they catch you looking, they're gone._

He didn't see who owned that shadow; it could have belonged to a businessman in a smart black suit or a man in decidedly more rumpled wear loping along. The former carried a briefcase, but so did a lot of New Yorkers. The latter carried none, but he could have left it in his hotel. 

_If you see the same stranger in more than one place, that's your first clue._

Neither man looked familiar—but there were so many people in this city, so many faces he'd seen once and wouldn't see again. Even if he saw the same one twice, chances were their face would have been washed out of his head by the flood of new people crossing his path. 

_Just gotta be on the lookout._

Another knot of people passed by, men and women together. A few pistols clung to the belts of the former; the latter wore no such weapons but those skirts would be an ideal place to hide one. A whole rifle could fit under those petticoats. There was room enough for an entire collection of knives. One quick motion, one distraction on the part of her companions, and he and Hazel would be at their mercy. 

"Five." 

Five jumped, realizing his mistake too late to correct it. 

"I'll keep an eye out for any agents, all right? You just….I dunno. Look at stuff." 

_That isn't how it works._ The sensation came to mind, though the words did not: a feeling that Hazel had just said the sky was green, a heaping dose of confusion and a smidgen of anger that he could say it with a straight face. Five had powers. Hazel had a briefcase and a pistol. One was meant to protect the other, and there was no question as to who did what. He stayed close to Hazel through the rest of the office visits, through their walks through the city that ended once again with Five hanging onto the briefcase while Hazel readied them to leave. Five silently named each step as it was performed: dial the date, month day year, make sure location's not preset, pick something that doesn't drop you in the middle of a war zone, press the button. 

A now-familiar headache gripped his head as the year 1901 vanished and 1948 stepped into the gap. He should have known it well enough by then to direct his thoughts around it, but thought felt a bit distant as Hazel led him toward a bank—where in the city it was, he didn't know, but Hazel hadn't changed the location and so this collection of glass-walled buildings towering above streets choked with cars had to be New York. Gone was the smell of manure stinging his nostrils; the smell of coal wafted beneath that of exhaust, a subtle note he only sensed because he'd sought it out. The men clipped past in suits that bore a familiar shape, similar colors; but the women's dresses were shorter, fuller, with less lace and less sleeve. There was still noise, but the rhythmic clacking of a hundred hooves had died, replaced by the rushing of a hundred cars. 

He followed Hazel through the door, gave the bank's interior a once-over as they stood in line. No one he'd seen before—but then, it had been fifty years since they'd last set foot in this city. Maybe the bank had been standing back then; maybe it had been built sometime prior to their return. He peered at the walls, at the floors and ceiling, trying to spot any clues as to whether it had been a bank, or if it had begun as something else and become a bank at some point in its life. 

Hazel slid the form across the counter. Five couldn't quite see the teller from where he stood, the counter being just a little taller than he was, but he heard the teller's surprise. 

"You'd like to withdraw the full amount?" 

"That's what it says on the slip." 

"Hm." A few noises—pens scratching, papers rustling—followed. "Any plans for it?" 

"I've got a few." 

"Well, what are they?" 

"Pretty damn great." 

The teller paused a moment. "There's no need to be rude, sir. I was just making conversation." 

Hazel said nothing, and the shuffling up above continued. 

"We're sorry to see you go," the teller said after a moment. 

"Yep. Sorry to leave." 

"Will you stay here, or do you have other plans?" 

"Don't see what that has to do with me getting my money." 

" _Someone's_ in a foul mood today." 

Hazel rolled his eyes, but Five saw the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his knuckles whitened on the briefcase. "I came for my money, lady. Not for chitchat." 

"Fine." A drawer opened. Five stepped back, watching as she counted a stack of bills onto the counter, then as her lips drew into a thin, angry line when Hazel counted the money himself. Apparently satisfied, Hazel took the money and put it into his pocket. 

"Thank you, ma'am." 

The teller sniffed. 

"Have a nice day, now." 

With that, Hazel turned toward the door, brushing past the next three people in line. At the fourth, he stopped, casting a glance back at the teller. Her window stood vacant; the next person in line tapped his foot. 

"C'mon," Hazel said before Five could guess what the sight might mean. "Let's head on out." 

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a Tumblr post by scotty-the-t-rex, petitioning for Hazel and Agnes to adopt the Hargreeves before Reginald could screw them up too badly. 
> 
> Post can be found here: https://scotty-the-t-rex.tumblr.com/post/185740712304/petition-for-hazel-and-agnes-to-go-back-in-time


End file.
